writing doodle - deeper and deeper and now what?

I woke up to find my skin was hot enough to use as a cooking surface.  Too bad I don't like eggs, I could have made several on the surface of my stomach. I felt just awful enough, I might even eat them.  Then again, maybe not.

By the time I staggered into the bathroom, it was as though I'd been beaten about the he
ad and torso with an ugly stick.  Every quarter of an inch of less, there was a raised red patch.  It looked kind of like a bad case of poison oak, but none of the patches were weeping and frankly I haven't been outside enough to be exposed.

The only possible solution was that the hives had spread during the night.  My positive affirmations CD didn't do its part to keep me from obsessing about another upcoming 'w' word.  I have no problem with the 'm' word, it is the 'w' word which creates problems.  All the planning, posing, pretending.  Not to mention all of the bills for a blow out for a woman who changes personalities within five minutes of receiving a diamond solitaire, which she probably wants to upgrade anyway.  If the personalities of my intendeds had ever returned to normal, the entire 'f' experience, I mean fiance experience not the fun f experience, might not be so disturbing.

I found my bottle of calamine lotion and some q-tips, the oatmeal scrub for my bath, the ever present bottle of bendadryl, and the towel that gets kept in its own baggie after it has been boiled for 30 minutes and dried in an extra hot drier, and completed my morning plans.  

First the bath to calm the current dermis, then swabbing the raised areas with calamine.  After the bath, two tabs of drugs, and finally a call into work since I am not effective on any kind of drug, not even Advil. 

"Louie," I called into the bedroom.  "It's a short trip this morning.  There's no time to doddle. Come on, oatmeal."

Louie raised his head from what had just been my pillow and glowered.  Louie is half dachshund and half German shepherd.  I knew the dog who sired him, my grandfather's long haired dachshund, Max, a little dog with an ambition to do big things and a penchant for digging.  The female was older and probably didn't feel anything or just didn't care enough to disengage him. By the time the owners figured out what happened, it was too late.  Louie was the only survivor in the litter.  When he was whelped, the owner delivered him to my grandfather who gave him to me.  Told me a real man was judged by the way he treated his animals.

Great.

I am the proud owner of a designer dog.  To give you a better visual, Louie is a full sized shepherd from nose to tail and the rest of him is a low rider.  I think of him as my own personal canine cocktail table.  You wouldn't think that a dog with four inches worth of legs could jump a six foot fence but has to be shoved to get onto the bed at night.

"I promise to make you your own bowl of oatmeal if you make things quick."

Oatmeal is a magical word, his favorite food, and a command.   Once the word has been said, it is an implied promise that he can have a portion of cooked oatmeal, non-sweetened.  He was off the bed, had  his leash in his mouth, and aimed his body at the backdoor before I finished my sentence.